


Nosoi's New Home

by EssayOfThoughts



Category: Flight Rising
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Injury Recovery, Necromancer (Flight Rising Fan Subspecies), Recovery, Themes of Failure, found home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 16:05:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17287199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts
Summary: The wind has her now, and the rain. Hurtling her down and away - away from the Shifting Expanse, towards the Ashfall Waste.She remembers now, why she left, why she lost memories at all. Her wings spasm and she forces them outstretched. She will turn this fall into a glide or she will die, and she’d rather not die just yet. Too many wait to blame her for failing, too many remain for her to curse and to cure.Rain turns to ash. It clings to wet scales like mud, weighs down her injured wing. It blows into her eyes and she’s almost blinded.She’s lucky when she lands. The ash is soft and gentle.





	Nosoi's New Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written as backstory for one of my dragons, Nosoi who is part of the Necromancer subspecies. You can read about the subspecies over [Here](http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/drs/2412017/1). 
> 
> The dragons met in this are, in order: [Nosoi](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&id=191160&tab=dragon&did=42407609), the Ridgeback Necromancer, main character and POV character; [Intestinum](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&id=191160&tab=dragon&did=40885693), Fireborn Necroservus and son of Haema and Aerugosanguis; [Porcelain](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&id=191160&tab=dragon&did=20425368), Shadowborn Fae and Healer of the clan of Tethys; [Haema](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&id=191160&tab=dragon&did=28559767), Plagueborn Imperial, mate to Aerugosanguis, mother to Intestinum and chronically ill with an unidentified ailment; [Aerugosanguis](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&id=191160&tab=dragon&did=24162871) Earthborn Priest of Plague and First Necromancer of the clan of Tethys; and lastly, [Tethys](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&id=191160&tab=dragon&did=18504140) herself, head and founder of the clan. 
> 
> [Jongin](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&id=191160&tab=dragon&did=27094674) is seen but not named, then [Herculanea](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&id=191160&tab=dragon&did=28447158) is mentioned (and later seen), followed by [Telchine](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&id=191160&tab=dragon&did=18504143) being mentioned (but not seen), and lastly with mention made of [Dendrobata](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&id=191160&tab=dragon&did=28394374).

She doesn’t remember much. She’s not sure if she should. That’s ok. She flies on. She’s beyond the Plaguelands now. Earlier there was a dark forest lit with pale glows. Something luminous, about the size and shape of a cat had tried to fly to her. She’d caught it in a breath of plague and flown on, carcass in hand as food.

As the sun rose, the forest ended. It seemed brighter than it should be, but maybe that was simply because she was used to a sky full of shadows and sickness. She flies on over vast pale ruins, and then a river. She follows it a little while, eats the creature she’d caught earlier. The river widens slowly, then falls in a deafening cascade. She shakes her head and turns away. The vast expanse of water is not for her.

She throws bones down into the pools that dot below her. There isn’t much food left. She’s not seen many dragons and nothing since the creature she’d just finished eating. She holds onto the skull though, pokes at its base in vague hope-

A few pieces remain. She tucks them between gum and cheek, tucks the skull into a pouch and flies on. To one side water extends towards the place she once called home. To the other a desert spreads out, dotted with cacti and shining metal spires. She feels static on her skin as the clouds begin to rumble. 

Ahead is a cloud. It’s not a stormcloud, but it’s far enough away she doesn’t know if she’ll reach its safety before lightning strikes. The clouds above rumble. Her stomach echoes them.

Rain begins to fall.  _ Tidelord’s gift, _ she remembers a voice saying. Perhaps her mother? _ He cleanses the plague and can bring new ones. His rain washes one away and in its wake new ones must form.  _

She scratches absently at her shoulder. The blood, caked and crumbling on her skin, cracks and falls. The skin beneath is strong, though, and welcomes the building wind.

She’s not sure her wings will.

The rain grows heavier. The next rumble of her stomach is drowned out by the clouds above. Something flashes past her, searing and bright, and then is gone. She thinks:  _ Perhaps Lord Stormcatcher does not want me here. _ Lightning strikes again, closer. The rain is heavier than ever. 

_ Tidelord’s gift _ , she remembers.  _ Please, oh please, be enough. Wash me home to Mother Plaguebringer if not. _

Thunder rumbles. Rain falls. Lightning crackles past her spines.

The quiet cloud ahead - atop a mountain full of fire, she sees now - draws closer. She is almost free of Stormcatcher’s desert, of Stormcatcher’s wrath. Lady Flamecaller will not hate her so, she thinks. Fire burns Plague, and they find peace thusly. 

Lightning sears her wing.

She screams. She can’t not. She’s not felt pain like this, not since she almost drowned in her egg, unable to crack the shell, not since the trials when death’s teeth had chased along her bones, not since she failed to pull Plague from family when she’d succeeded every time before.

The memories rush through her. Her mother’s face, her father’s, the claw of Lady Plaguebringer that had set plague loose in her body. The bird she’d caught and cursed and cured, the Talonok who’s wing she’d set, the hatchling she’d saved from sniffles, the clan she’d cursed after they’d encroached on her clan’s lands.

The wind has her now, and the rain. Hurtling her down and away - away from the Shifting Expanse, towards the Ashfall Waste.

She remembers now, why she left, why she lost memories at all. Her wings spasm and she forces them outstretched. She will turn this fall into a glide or she will die, and she’d rather not die just yet. Too many wait to blame her for failing, too many remain for her to curse and to cure.

Rain turns to ash. It clings to wet scales like mud, weighs down her injured wing. It blows into her eyes and she’s almost blinded. 

She’s lucky when she lands. The ash is soft and gentle.

 

* * *

 

“What, and you think-”

“I’ll find one, Testy, just you wait.”

“Dad’s not gonna make you a Necromancer because you bring him a Plague Sprite, Porce. He couldn’t even do that for me.”

“I’ve studied healing my  _ whole life _ , Testy. I think it’s time I learned diseases too.”

_ Healing. _ She blinks her eyes against the ash, struggles to lift a wing.

“So ask him, Porce. Or ask my mum, she can tell you plenty.”

“It’s not the same!”

There’s a grunt. “Go on then. Find your sprite.”

She struggles to lift a wing, and a fall of ash cascades down. It’s not enough, she’s still covered, but she’s lying on her good wing and the lightning- she kicks. Lifts her arms, tries to move her wing again.

“Testy!”

“Don’t tell me you found- Holy Fire.”

“Go get your father.”

“Porce, you can’t-”

“Go and get him  _ now!” _

 

* * *

 

There’s a dragon above her. A tiny Fae with a pale body and pale wings with blue swirls. Shadow eyes beneath glossy white membranes. 

“Hush,” she says. “Testy’ll be back soon. He’ll help me set your wing.”

 

* * *

 

She’s moving. There’s a cloth beneath her, voices ahead. A travois? The ash is still falling and she feels it soften the way beneath her.

“She’ll be fine, Testy, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried about healing her, Dad. But she’s-”

“She won’t hurt Haema. I won’t let her.”

“Didn’t stop you-”

“Intestinum, if you say another word I will Plague you myself.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a cast on her wing when she wakes. The tiny Fae is beside her - Porce? - holding a bowl of something liquid and smelling of fish. Plague, she’s missed proper seafood.

A small claw touches her forehead. “Hey. Nice to see you awake.”

“Where-”

“The clan of Tethys.”

“And the other-”

The Fae nods. “Intestinum. He’s here too. And his father.”

“I’m sorry.”

The Fae blinks. “For what?”

She’s not sure. For falling. For failing. For breaking her wing.

“Here. Have your soup. I’ll get the others.”

She presses the bowl into her claws and flies off in a flutter of wings, calling names as she goes.

The bowl is warm in her grip.

As she drinks - occasionally picking out fine bones and pieces of shell - she looks around. The cave she’s in is simply carved, rock dotted with holes and filled in with clay and metal. There’s a few nest-beds, it seems, and a cupboard of bandages and jars. In the farthest corner an Imperial is curled, blood red all over with thylacine slashes down her back.

“Hello?”

The Imperial stirs, a Plague-red eye opens. “You’re awake,” she says. “I’m glad. I wondered when you would.” She dips her head slightly. “Plaguebringer’s blessing upon you, and Flamecaller’s fire.”

“-awake!”

The Fae flutters in, followed by three Guardians and an older Mirror. Two of the Guardians step forwards, the last, blue as the Mirror, hangs back.

“Plaguebringer’s blessing,” says the lead Guardian. “I’m Aerugosanguis, Earthborn Priest of Plague.”

“Necromancer,” she says. “Like me.”

Aerugosanguis bows his head. “Indeed. This is my son, Intestinum.” He gestures to the Guardian beside him, a Necroservus. “He and Porcelain found you when Gathering. Thanks to Porcelain’s skills, your wing will heal soon.”

She glances at the rest of the troupe.

“Why the inquisition?”

“As you said yourself, you are a Necromancer,” Aerugosanguis says. “We wish to know if you mean us harm or help.”

She glances over them all. The Mirror, watchful and waiting, the Guardian beside her almost bored. The Fae - Porcelain, she presumes - is perched on a desk, pouring measures of medicine out. Aerugosanguis and his son, watching her. Only the Imperial in the corner seems amused.

“I mean nothing,” she says. “I failed my clan. I flew. I fell. There is no meaning in chance.”

The group before her look to one another. The Mirror slowly nods. “Do any of us harm and I will kill you myself. This is my clan” - Tethys, then - “and I will not see them hurt. But you may stay until you are well enough to travel and decide what to do then.”

She trots out, the blue Guardian silent at her shoulder.

Aerugosanguis, Intestinum and Porcelain remain. The Imperial in the corner watches.

“How did you fail?” Aerugosanguis asks. He’s already pulling bandages from shelves, salves and ointments. “Not the trials, clearly.”

Intestinum edges away, stands a small distance from the Imperial. They talk, softly enough she cannot hear what they’re saying. Porcelain flutters over with a vial.

“Guest?” Aerugosanguis’ face is expectant. 

“Nosoi,” she says. “My name is Nosoi. And I failed to cure my clan.”

The room goes very still. Intestinum is staring openly - for a Necroservus, she imagines, especially one with so self-assured a Necromancer father, the idea of a Necromancer failing anything must be impossible. Porcelain’s hands cup her face, cover her mouth. Aerugosanguis looks shocked.

Then the Imperial hauls herself up.

At once the room is a rush, Intestinum reaching to support the dragon, Porcelain fluttering. Even Aerugosanguis moves, crying “Haema!” as he goes. 

“I’m fine, Sang.”

“Haema-”

The Imperial pushes past him. Or… not pushes. Her wings droop at her sides, feathers trailing on the ground, and her hair is limp. She is clearly ill, clearly weak, and Nosoi has a close understanding of how Aerugosanguis, Earthborn as he is, and born of strength, must hate that he cannot cure this.

“Mother-”

“Hush,” Haema says, and stops beside Nosoi. Slowly she arranges herself on the floor - Nosoi tries to move but the cast on her wing hampers her movement and Haema’s raised claw stills her completely. Finally settled, Haema looks Nosoi in the eye. “Nosoi,” she says softly. “Disease-bringer. A good name.” She swallows, seems to chew her words over. “I too failed my clan,” she says. “Never the trials. I was never strong enough for that. But I was weak. I was born so. I still am, even here, where I breathe easier and with Aerugosanguis to pull Plague from my lungs. I know, I think, a little of failure.”

Haema settles. At her back Aerugosanguis, Intestinum and Porcelain seem lost. 

“I hope you stay,” Haema says frankly. “You cannot fail us. We have no expectations for you, and we already have a Necromancer. Even if you failed us, we would not rely only on you. Even if you stayed, you would not have to do so as Her left hand, and would not have to risk failure.”

Nosoi can see on Haema’s side a single handprint of rot.

“You are a Necromancer, though,” Aerugosanguis says. “You  _ must _ serve.”

Only Nosoi sees Haema’s rolled eyes. “As you serve Earthshaker?” she asks. “Or our Lady of Flame?”

“This is  _ different,” _ Aerugosanguis says. “This is  _ chosen.” _

“Not always for the best reasons,” Haema says. Intestinum shuffles his feet. “And a choice can always be unmade.”

The rot is spreading across Haema’s side. If it is hurting her, she shows no sign. Nosoi thinks back, thinks of Intestinum reaching to support his mother.

She wonders how painful it must be, for mother and son, that an uncontrolled touch could infect an already ill dragon beyond saving.

Haema watches her still. Aerugosanguis and Intestinum seem antsy. Porcelain is still but for flutters of her headcrest.

Nosoi reaches out slowly. Finds the Plague in her blood and pulls it back, back to the core of herself. “Thank you,” she says softly, and finds the Plague in Haema, pulls that too, pulls it into herself until the handprint starts to fade. “I will think on what you have said.”

Haema’s expression warms. “Wonderful,” she says. “Now, I hate to be a bother, but could I have a cushion? This really is very uncomfortable.”

Nosoi laughs, and pushes a pillow to the floor.

 

* * *

 

Her wing heals slowly. Porcelain is a constant presence, second only to Haema who insists that her bed be remade beside Nosoi. Two other Guardians help with that, chatting gladly all the while. Nosoi wonders how many bloody Guardians this clan has.

Intestinum visits often - whenever, Nosoi thinks, his father can spare him. He curls a cat’s length from his mother and they talk in soft voices. He seems wary at first, until Haema invites Nosoi into the fifth conversation, shared over lunch.

“Nosoi,” Haema says, “Tell my son to stop fretting for my health. He’ll take it better from you.”

From how he narrows his eyes she doubts that, but speaks anyway. 

“Your touch has healed completely,” Nosoi says. “And since the storm moved on, she’s been breathing more easily. Her wings ache, though. If there are any hydrothermal pools here, a swim may do her good.”

“Swimming,” he says. “A Ridgie is recommending  _ swimming.” _

“Not for me,” Nosoi points out. “For Haema. Weight is different in water. It will ease the ache of her joints.”

 

* * *

 

Haema goes swimming. Porcelain, tiny as she is, follows, calling for one of the Guardians who rearranged the bedding before.

While she’s gone, Aerugosanguis visits.

“Come to check on my wing?” she asks.

His jaw twitches. “In part. Also, my ex-wife.”

It takes Nosoi a moment. “Haema and Porcelain have gone for a swim. Hydrothermal pools. Good for the joints.”

He huffs a breath, draws a knife with skilled and practised ease along her wing cast. “Perhaps you should join them,” he suggests. “For your wing.”

“I will step in water when I die,” Nosoi says. “The mother of my mother was born of water. We trust the Tidelord to take us home in death. Not before.”

“Hmm. Stretch?”

She stretches her wings. Aerugosanguis’ claws are gentle on the limb, checking the bone is healed enough. While he is distracted she takes a bloodflower from the colony on his shoulder - perfect to season fish stew with.

“Stretch every day,” he says, moving away. “If it hurts, tell Porcelain.”

He washes his hands in a basin - hot water and cold piped in from below, Haema had said - and dries off each claw.

“And Nosoi?” he says. “If Haema gets so much as a chill from this-”

“She won’t. We’re in Fire’s lands.”

“I will not see her failed.”

Nosoi recoils. “I’ve failed once before. I won’t again.”

Aerugosanguis regards her. “She is my once,” he says. “If she dies-”

“You’ll live,” Nosoi says. “Earthborn. You’re strong enough.”

 

* * *

 

She stretches her wings. Next to the cave-room of healers is a large cavern; according to Porcelain its for precisely this reason.

“Several of the clan have damaged their wings before,” she explains, leading Nosoi through. “So we made this space for their healing.”

Clambering and gliding come back quickly. Short flights across the cavern follow a few days later. Turns are simple enough and after a few days more Nosoi feels confident enough to attempt the harder slaloms and crevice-turns.

With a tearing yank her wing fails her, and she falls once more to the ash beneath.

 

* * *

 

 

“Permanent damage,” Porcelain says when she examines it. “Weak bone. Improper mending. Malnutrition when you broke it, maybe.” Her small clawed hands gently pat Nosoi’s head. “No flying for two weeks. I’ll talk to Herculanea.”

Haema watches as Porcelain flutters away. “A longer stay?” she asks.

“My wing,” Nosoi says. “Worse than we thought.”

Haema nods slowly, gaze considering. “Let me talk to my son,” she says, and hauls herself carefully upright.

 

* * *

 

Nosoi doesn’t know what Haema has said to her son when she returns, but her feathered wings are drooping with exhaustion even as her eyes are bright. Intestinum follows, wary but alert when he sees the fresh poultice on Nosoi’s wing.

“Has Herculanea been told?” he asks. “She’ll need to know.”

“Porcelain went,” Haema assures him. “And she already has the blueprints from making your wing supports.”

He nods slowly. “You’re sure, Mum? Last time-”

Haema shushes him. “I’m stronger than I was then. And you know better. Besides, Nosoi is Plagueborn and a Necromancer. It will balance out.”

Nosoi is quite lost. “What will?”

Intestinum looks at his mother. Haema nods back, and settles on her bed. “Fine,” he says, with ill grace. Then, to Nosoi, “This will hurt.”

He settles between them both, near the points of their folded wings. Nosoi can see his more clearly now, the metal struts along the main bones, the cogs that ease movement. In silence Intestinum runs a clawtip over his mother’s feathered wing - an odd thing to see, that mutation, Nosoi thinks, especially in one who left the Plaguelands - then touches his hand to the feathers and the limb itself.

He can’t cure Plague, Nosoi knows. He’s a Necroservus, inherently lesser in the eyes of the Plaguebringer. He carries disease and can absorb new ones but he can’t  _ cure _ sickness or remove mutation. He, like her, is a specific kind of failure.

But, she sees, that is not what he’s trying to do. For a moment his wings ripple, as though they’re going to break out in feathers to match his mother’s and his other hand grasps Nosoi’s wings with force to match her landing.

Something new begins to burn in her blood. She spasms as the mutation meets her reserves of Plague. She feels the gift - feathered mother to Necroservus son, a bond of blood and binding, passed to her, from Necroservus to Necromancer. One of her viruses grabs it, the feather-gift, and Nosoi knows to let it loose.

It spirals over her wings, courses through her blood. She feels Haema’s claws on hers, Intestinum’s hands holding her wings down from thrashing and then-

Feathers. They sprout one by one, pushing out of the fine membrane of her wing. Crimson as blood, sanguine as her Necromancer markings, and Nosoi grits her teeth to hold back a scream. 

Then, all at once it eases. Haema’s hand falls gently from hers, Intestinum’s grip lets loose of her wings as he rushes to his mother.

“I’m fine,” she assures him. “See to your patient.”

Nosoi almost wants to laugh - a Necroservus with a patient - but then Intestinum’s magic washes over hers, checking to see what damage has been done with the kind of precise skill than Nosoi knows is born of practice.

“She’ll be fine,” he says. “Now, both of you, rest.”

 

* * *

 

When she wakes it's to Aerugosanguis scolding his son.

“Did you think at all about what might have happened? Not just to Nosoi, but to your mother?”

“Mum  _ asked _ me to.” Intestinum’s voice is stubborn. “And Nosoi is like you, a Necromancer. She helps Porcelain treat Mum more than you do these days.” He glances around, to his sleeping mother, to Porcelain’s empty desk. His eyes widen a moment when he sees Nosoi is awake, then he turns back to his father. “I think you’ve given up your right to worry about Mum’s health. She chose. She wanted to help Nosoi. So I did. This wasn’t your choice to make.”

“Intestinum.” Aerugosanguis’ tone is warning. “You are a Necro _ servus. _ There is no guarantee it would have worked. I am your father and your master. You owe me at least the respect of asking. If you had failed and killed Haema-”

“Then it would have been on my head. But Mum  _ chose. _ You don’t get to take that from her. You took me, you took yourself. You act as though she isn’t your Charge.”

The snarl that rips from Aerugosanguis’ throat makes the room rumble. A few pebbles fall, and Nosoi uncurls, ready to step in.

“You know  _ nothing-” _

_ “Because you won’t tell me! _ Not why you left Mum, not why you only treat her rarely now,  _ nothing. _ And it's your fault. Because you don’t want to be a failure like me.”

“Or me.” Nosoi uncurls, flares new-feathered wings. “Or Haema, even, perhaps. But I think you and I are closest, Aerugosanguis, because you recoil from the one you love for fear of failing them and I fled those I love because I did exactly that.”

Aerugosanguis is still and stunned.

“That is why,” she says. “Isn’t it? I fled my failure because I failed those I love. You flee those you love because you fear failing them. And both of us hurt ourselves and those we love in doing so, and so no one is healed, even those we have the greatest duty to, and we fail even though we try not to.”

The room is very quiet and deathly still.

“Sang,” says Haema’s soft voice. Beside Nosoi’s bed her red eyes are bright. “Is this true?”

 

* * *

 

Haema and Aerugosanguis leave, Necromancer supporting his patient. Intestinum sits, wings tucked and tail curled around him, in the middle of the room.

“Thank you,” he says eventually. “Mum wouldn’t say anything and Dad refused to listen to me. So. Thanks. For making him realise the porcupine he was sitting on.”

Nosoi shrugs. “I owe you. My wings-”

“They’ll still be weak,” he says. “It doesn’t stop the atrophy or completely repair the muscle. It just… reinforces the wing. The feather growth wakes the muscles up. Telchine broke his wings in a mining accident months ago and the feathers- he can almost fly like he used to.”

Realisation dawns. “Herculanea,” she says. “Your wing supports.”

Intestinum shrugs. “My Plague is vicious, sometimes. This way I can help Dad even if its far afield and my wings ache. Your’s’ll be more comprehensive.”

“Thank you,” Nosoi says. “For everything.”

Intestinum smiles at that. “Thank Mum,” he says. “If she’ll let you when she and Dad get back.”

 

* * *

 

Haema refuses to let Nosoi thank her. Instead she insists on helping when Herculanea comes to fit her wings.

The forgemistress’ mask seems to almost leak fire and her skin is as clearly touched by the Flamecaller’s hands as Tethys’ is the Lightweaver’s, or Aerugosanguis’ the Plaguebringer’s. Her movements are all business as she sets out the parts and fits them together, locking struts and cogs into place against Nosoi’s shoulder.

“This will hurt,” Intestinum warns and then the copper-coated bronze seals to her skin, and the core cable is pushed into her side. It does hurt, yes, but it is fleeting and when she moves to shift her wings the new additions follow the feathers and membrane with ease.

“Exercise,” Herculanea says. “Porcelain will tell you.”

Then she’s gone, the glow from her lava-like scales glinting distantly down the hall.

 

* * *

 

Routine forms over the next few days. Wake, eat, stretch. Dendrobata and Porcelain help Haema to the hydrothermal pools and while they’re gone Nosoi goes to the cavern and flies. Some days other dragons - hatchlings, mostly, but some adults - join her. Other days she flies alone.

The fifth day, Aerugosanguis is waiting for her when she lands.

“Walk with me?” he asks.

 

* * *

 

They walk outside. Ash rests in drifts but none is falling. Scattered singed trees exist as bare spikes and something about the silhouette of the horizon reminds her of home.

“Tethys and Haema would like you to stay,” he says. “The help you’ve offered Haema, that you prevented my argument with my son worsening… Tethys approves. She doesn’t like it when we fight. And Haema likes you, and Porcelain and Intestinum.”

“Are you going to warn me off?” Nosoi asks. “Necromancers don’t usually share territory, and you’re still protective of Haema, so-”

“Haema wants you to stay. And as you and she and my son have pointed out, I have hurt you each enough.” He settles to sit, tail curled around him in the ash. “I do not begrudge you showing me my mistakes. In truth, I am grateful. I can be as stubborn as the Earth I was born to, ‘shaker knows, and it can take more strength than Haema often has to show me my errors.”

For a while they are quiet, watching the fire and magma spark in the distance. Aerugosanguis stays still, unmoving, his posture the same as his son’s. 

“So?” Nosoi asks. “Am I welcome to stay or are you trying to warn me off?”

Aerugosanguis cracks a smile. “I would be glad of your company,” he says softly. “Much as Haema already is. Whether you stay or leave is your decision, but at the least, Haema and I would be glad to share our home with you.”

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments and feedback! I may end up writing more longform backstories here for my dragons and I'd be interested to know what could be done better and what narratives people would be interested in seeing.


End file.
